


lucky to have met you

by littleghost



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, this is only focused on reddie (and kurt cobain)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21897460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleghost/pseuds/littleghost
Summary: It’s October, 1993, and his parents just told him they won’t buy him tickets to go see Nirvana in November. Because they’re going to visit relatives in California. It’s absolutely unfair, for them to crush his dreams like this. Who cares about his almost-dead relatives, because Richie is going to die. He says as much to Eddie, who’s also in his room, unmoved by Richie’s plight.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	lucky to have met you

Richie’s life is  _ over _ . 

It’s October, 1993, and his parents just told him they won’t buy him tickets to go see Nirvana in November. Because they’re going to visit relatives in California. It’s absolutely unfair, for them to crush his dreams like this. Who cares about his almost-dead relatives, because Richie is going to  _ die _ . He says as much to Eddie, who’s also in his room, unmoved by Richie’s plight.

“I’m certain you will be fine,” he says. Richie isn’t looking at him, but he knows Eddie is rolling his eyes. That’s Eddie’s third-most common facial expression, after his scowl and his resting bitch face. (The fourth-most common is his smile, but he frowns more often nowadays.)

“Eddie!” he whines, pushing himself up on his elbows. Eddie is twirling a pencil between his fingers, bent over their chemistry homework. Richie’s desk is piled high with books and paper, but he’s cleared a spot just for Eddie.

He doesn’t respond, and the room lapses into silence. Outside, the birds are chirping and a car goes flying down the street, engine rattling away. If he listens hard, he could probably hear Sonia watching The Young and The Restless. He can’t though, and silence is boring, so he decides to bug Eddie some more.

“Eddie. Eddie. Eds. Spaghetti. Edmund.” With each nickname, he can see Eddie visibly tense, his fingers tightening around the pencil. After the sixth nickname, he snaps.

“What!” He turns around, and the pencil goes flying. It soars across the room and sticks into the wall like a very wooden dart. It stays there for one, two, three, four seconds before falling to the floor. Richie can see the lead still stuck in the walls. He’s glad it didn’t damage his Nirvana poster, of course.

“Huh. Cool,” Richies says.

Eddie sighs, loudly. “What did you want?”

“Would you miss me?” Richie sprawls across his bed on his stomach, face in his hands and legs kicked up behind him. This is how every girl looks on TV when talking about boys, and he’s sure he’s imitating them perfectly. “If I died.”

It’s silent, then, “Yeah.” It’s one of the rare times Eddie is genuine when Richie jokes around, and Richie beams.

“I’d miss you too! So of course I’d have to haunt you in the afterlife, which is great because I can have sweet ghost sex with your--”

Eddie throws another pencil, this one nailing Richie right in the forehead. He goes down like its a gunshot wound, clutching his forehead and groaning dramatically, Eddie ignores him which, well, was to be expected. He just picks up another pencil from Richie’s desk and keeps scribbling away. 

Richie looks at his forehead in the mirror. There’s a grey spot, right in the center, where the lead dug into his skin. There’s also a little bit of blood coming out, but whatever. “Dude, do you think I could get a tattoo from pencil lead?”

The question makes Eddie sigh loudly, and he drops his pen to face Richie. “I think you would get an infection and lose whatever limb you were doing it on.”

“Dude,” Richie breathed, “ _ hardcore.” _ Eddie just scowls at him, and turns back to his homework. Richie falls back on his bed.

He’s still upset about the tickets, though. He’s begged for the chance to go see Nirvana every Christmas and birthday and even Easter for the past two years. They weren’t impressed by his Easter wishlist, even though none of them have stepped in a church since he was a toddler. The last religious establishment the Toziers were in was the synagogue for Stan’s bar mitzvah, and they don’t even believe in Jesus.

Richie thought this time would be it. He’s only months away from eighteen, and the show in New York is even on a  _ weekend _ . He made a whole list on why they should let him go:

  1. They are my absolute most favorite best band
  2. The tickets are 20 bucks
  3. It’s on a weekend
  4. Gas for the whole trip is 60 bucks
  5. I will even pay for it
  6. Please pretty please?



His mom had laughed when she read it, and promised to think about it. As far as that went for Richie, that was a yes. So for two weeks he made sure he was on his best behaviour, cleaning up the kitchen and making sure he didn’t play his vinyls too loudly when she was sleeping off a hangover.

Of course, at the end of those two weeks, his dad told him the two of them are going to California to see some great aunt Richie’s never heard of in November, and Richie can’t expect them to let him go to New York City alone, right? Who knows what kind of trouble he’d get up to there? He managed to make it to his room before he let out a few angry tears, and by then, Eddie was barging in with chemistry homework.

The sound of pencil on paper pauses, and Eddie turns around to face him. He doesn’t look angry anymore, just tired. “Did you get number seven?” he asks, even sounding tired.

Richie knows Eddie comes over to do his homework not just to escape his mother’s overbearing presence in that house, but because he knows Richie can help him. They’re all trying to get the fuck out of Derry, but Eddie needs the grades to get money for anywhere other than community college, which is still too close. “Yeah, of course,” Richie says, moving over to help.

Like this, at least, he has a reason to press their shoulders together at his tiny desk and feel the heat of Eddie’s thigh burning into his own.

Richie’s parents left three hours ago, at the crack of dawn. His mom kissed him on the cheek, his father handed him an envelope of money and a look that said he couldn’t use it at the arcade. That’s fine, he’ll only use half at the arcade. He can eat pasta for a whole week.

But it’s silent in his house, and all the others are out doing important things with their families. Eddie’s the only one that could possibly be free, but he’s been avoiding Richie for the past week. He doesn’t even know why, just that every time Eddie looks at him his gaze skitters away, and Richie feels something curdle in his stomach.  _ Maybe Eddie found out _ , he thinks one night, staring at the slats of moonlight coming in from his window.  _ Eddie found out and now he hates me. _

He’s alone at his house with no friends to hang out with, so he decides to actually use the guitar he bought two years ago. He got it because Jason Butler got a new one, and Richie had forty bucks in his pocket. It’s kinda shitty, some of the tuning pegs a little wonky and there’s a chip on the frets, but it still works when he plugs into an amp. His mom  _ hates _ it, which is why he’s barely had any time to practice it. But with them out of the house for the week, Richie has time. 

He’s forlornly starting up the riff for Come As You Are when Eddie bursts into his room. Richie’s hands slip on the frets and a burst of feedback whips through the room, making both of them wince.

“Hi?” Richie says. Eddie has a giant backpack on, and a determined look on his face that Richie only sees when they’re dealing with Bowers (or an evil fucking clown).

“C’mon, let’s go,” Eddie says, and immediately leaves the room, thundering down the stairs.

Richie knows he’s an impulsive, rather adventurous guy but one thing is certain: Eddie is  _ not _ . Even without Sonia breathing down his throat, Eddie keeps to his neat routines. And this is wildly off course.

“Where am I going?” Richie calls after him. When he moves into the hallway he hears Eddie rummaging around in the living room.

“Pack a bag and your wallet and keys!” he yells up. 

Never one to say no to Eddie, he does as asked. He shoves a few—clean! Eddie would be so proud—shirts in his bag, another pair of briefs, and heads down the stairs, keys and wallet in the pocket of his jean jacket.

“Ready?” Eddie asks, waiting by the front door.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” Richie asks, following his best friend and locking the door behind him. The sun has barely risen enough to warm up the air, and Richie’s teeth start chattering in the time it takes for him to get in his car. It’s warm for a November day in Maine, but that means nothing.

“You’ll figure out soon enough,” Eddie replies, the cryptic asshole. “But you’re gonna love it. Get on 95 South.”

Richie shoots him a look, but Eddie is pointedly avoiding his gaze. Whatever, he’ll find out eventually.

They don’t talk for the first two hours, besides Eddie occasionally calling out road changes and giving non-answers when Richie tries to wheedle out an answer of where they’re going. He really doesn’t like the idea of driving for an undetermined amount of time, but Eddie sounded so sure of himself that Richie would like whatever surprise so, well, he’s sure he’ll like it. 

(No one knows him better than Eddie Kaspbrak—besides  _ that _ . No one knows about that.) 

It isn’t until Richie sees a green sign that says  **New York City 313 Miles** that in clicks in his head. “The Nirvana concert is tonight,” he says slowly. Beside him, Richie lets out a low hum, but he’s clearly excited. When Richie glances over, his eyes are bright, and he has a small smile on his mouth. “Eddie fucking Kaspbrak do you have tickets to a fucking Nirvana concert!?”

“Maybe,” Eddie says, but Richie’s excitement is too infectious for him to play cool. He’s grinning wide now, matching Richie.

“You,” Richie says, locking eyes with Eddie, “are the greatest.” He maintains eye contact, until he realizes the car is drifting, and swerves back into the right lane.

Eddie curses. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says but with some fondness. “Please don’t kill us before we get there.”

“Eds, baby, you know I won’t die before I see Kurt Cobain in person.”

The customary “Don’t call me that!” comes out a little strangled, and that’s when Richie realizes what he says. It’s too late for takebacks, though, but Richie is good enough at pretending he isn’t in love with his best friend to ignore it.

They stop for gas and snacks just after noon. Richie fills up the tank completely, already doing the math in his head. Sixty bucks, he told his mom all those weeks ago. He’s just put fifteen in, but they made a good bit on the half tank he already had. Eddie comes back to the car with his arms laden with snacks: cokes, chips, the peach candies he devours in handfuls. Richie snags a peach ring as he heads into the passenger seat, the sugary taste immediately coating his mouth.

“How much longer, o’ captain my captain?” Richie asks, finishing up at the pump. When he gets back in the car, Eddie has a map opened on his lap, scowling down at the blue and red lines. “Wait, we’re not lost, right?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “No, just double checking. Can we get going?”

“Steady yer horses,” Richie says, trying for a John Wayne accent. It’s not his best, but Eddie cracks another small smile, which is always a win in Richie’s book.

It takes another four hours to get to the city. It’s rush hour, and trying to find their way to the hotel near the venue is  _ hell _ . Richie’s never seen so many cars at once in his life, and he’s started to feel like Eddie, who’s gone ash white in the passenger seat next to him. Finally, they manage to find whatever hotel Eddie has in his head, though parking is a whole other nightmare.

“It’s a bit of a dump, Eds,” Richie remarks when he stares up at the Winking Moon Hotel. It looks trashy, but cheap, and Richie’s not going to argue with saving money.

“Don’t call me that,” he replies, pushing ahead. 

Their room has two twin beds, is on the third floor, and has a very suspicious stain on the carpet. Richie watches Eddie as his mouth thins, and he takes a very measured breath before looking away. Even Richie feels a little dirty in this room, and he watches as Eddie checks the beds for bedbugs, folding down the covers and looking for any stains.

“We don’t have to stay here tonight, y’know,” Richie offers. He can see Eddie working himself into an anxiety attack. “I’ll be fine driving us back after the show.”

“I wanna go to the museum,” Eddie says, “and maybe look at NYU.”

Richie laughs. “Sounds good, Eddie Spaghetti. We’ll leave after that, though, don’t wanna miss school.”

“Wow, when did you get so responsible,” Eddie says, smiling. It makes Richie’s chest catch on fire. “I thought you’d just wanna stay in the city forever.”

“In an actual apartment, Eds,” he says. “Can’t have you living in fear now, can I?”

Eddie doesn’t argue the implicit idea that’d he’d come and visit, only throws up the trite complaint about the nickname. After all these years, though, he’s gotten less mad about it. Their back-and-forth is just routine, but Richie still loves it.

“Alright, let’s go see what all the big deal about their pizza is about,” Richie announces, getting up from the bed. “Those road snacks were  _ not _ very nutritious.”

“Neither is pizza, dumbass,” Eddie replies. 

Their shoulders brush when they leave the room, and his arm feels warm the entire walk to a pizza joint. 

They join the line at six, two hours before the show starts, one hour before the doors open. Richie thinks about asking the two girls in front of him if he could have a hit off their joint, but he knows Eddie wouldn’t appreciate it. The guy’s already wound-up next to him, entire body tense like it’ll stave off the anxiety.

“You don’t have to come in, y’know,” Richie whispers into his ear. He doesn’t want to say it too loud, like the people around them will care. “You can just go back to the hotel and wait.”

Eddie scowls, his anxiety washing away in favor of his favorite emotion: annoyance (usually caused by Richie). “Like I’m gonna leave you here,” he scoffs, “You’ll probably brain yourself tripping on nothing.”

Richie holds up his hands, conceding the point. “Alright, alright, Eds. Don’t say I didn’t give you an out, though.”

“Don’t call me that,” comes the usual retort, but it’s all bark, no bite. “We’re seeing Nirvana  _ together _ , Rich.”

It’s not the first time he’s used that nickname, but it still makes Richie’s heart go way too fucking soft all the same. He runs his hands through his hair, wincing as some of his curls tangle up. Eddie doesn’t complain when he’s used as an armrest moments later, and Richie thinks he could die happy.

Except, when they get through the doors and he can see the techs setting up on stage, the only emotion left in his body is adrenaline. Eddie pushes him ahead, even after Richie asks three times if he’s okay with hanging back, and it takes the genuine shove before Richie gets the message and starts making his way towards the front.

“Can you hold on to this for me, then,” Richie asks, shrugging out of his jacket. It’s too heavy for the heat inside the building, and he knows he’s going to be jumping around for a good portion of the night.

It’s probably the lights casting a red glow to Eddie’s cheeks as he takes it, and he pulls it on hesitantly. “Don’t get hurt,” he cautions, and then shoves Richie into the crowd.

The Coliseum is  _ huge _ . It’s the biggest building Richie’s ever been in, because he’s never been out of small-town Maine, only having driven over to Bangor for their better stocked record stores. People are cramming their way to the front, and Richie’s glad he left his jacket behind with Eddie.

Half Japanese opens up kinda slow, but Richie’s close enough that the crowd gets moving. The Breeders is a different sound than Nirvana, but everyone is amped up now, because they all know who’s going to take the stage next.

And the crowd goes  _ wild _ .

A burst of feedback, and the riff kicking in as Dave Grohl starts on the drums. Kurt stops playing as he steps up to the mic, dead-eyed staring over the crowd as he begins,  _ Just use once and destroy. _ The crowd starts quickly, energy bumping just at the sight of Kurt Cobain standing in front of them, in the flesh. Even the slight monotone of his singing can’t stop them from losing themselves from the music.

When Breed starts, the drum sends everyone into a frenzy, and they’re all knocking around. Richie’s elbow hits someone’s soft stomach, but he doesn’t bother to apologize. Someone pushes him to the side and he pushes back, a hand grabs his shoulder briefly, an elbow slams into his chest. He lifts a girl up so she can surf, and skin is touching skin everywhere. He feels electric, inside and out. There’s a bruise forming on his cheek, he can just tell, by someone’s accidental-maybe-on-purpose punch. Girls are being hauled out by security for medical attention. The bass is inside Richie’s bloodstream, and he can’t stop yelling out the lyrics and shoving around with the rest of the cloud.

Lithium is coming to a close, and everyone slows down for the (relatively) calm opening to Pennyroyal Tea. Richie’s face is throbbing, and if he carries on any longer, he might be dragged off too. So he starts pushing his way to the back, where he left Eddie. People throw him looks while he tries to move back, which is kinda dumb, because that’s one less body between them and Kurt Cobain. They should be  _ grateful _ , all things considered. He knows Eddie’ll agree with him, whenever he gets back there.

It takes all of Pennyroyal and the start of Polly before Richie finally finds Eddie. He’s huddled into the back wall, the jean jacket still around his shoulders. It makes him fit in more, all things considered. He tried his best, bless his heart, with his oldest pair of jeans and his “grungiest” shirt, but he still looked like he stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. He does look like he’s enjoying himself, though, nodding his head along. Richie grins; his music taste has really rubbed off on Eddie.

Eddie lights up when he sees Richie approaching, his barely-interested expression melting away. Richie’s heart beats along to Grohl’s drums but it skips the bass drum a few times, cymbals crashing in his head.

“Tired yet?” he shouts into Richie’s ear. He has to rise up on his toes to even reach it, and Richie still has to stoop over. Eddie’s hand is warm on his bare arm.

“Nah, just didn’t wanna get too bruised,” Richie yells back. “Thought your mom wouldn’t—” Eddie’s elbow into his solar plexus cuts him off and he wheezes for a few moments. It wasn’t a hard hit, but he’s still bruised and battered from his time in the mosh pit. “Don’t worry about it, Eds,” Richie tells him, and Eddie must actually be worried, because he doesn’t say anything else.

Richie leans against the wall, arm draped casually around Eddie shoulders. They lean into each other, and Richie finds his body still feels electric, with the short hair on Eddie’s neck brushing his arm.

And then Drain You plays.

_ One baby to another says I’m lucky to have met you _ , Kurt sings into the mic, and Richie tenses. He’s thinking of the mixtape after mixtape he made with this song, just to hear the lyrics  _ In a passionate kiss from my mouth to yours, I like you _ . Beside him, Eddie is cringing at the lyrics, and Richie can’t blame him. He knows it’s disgusting to Eddie but—

But it makes sense for  _ him _ , at least, for Richie. He’s not supposed to like his best friend this way, and maybe if the one song he connects to the most is disgusting about love, then that makes sense.  _ It is now my duty to completely drain you _ , Kurt sings, and Richie keeps his eyes trained on the little figures on the stage.

Maybe it’s gross, maybe he’s disgusting, but Richie knows who he is, and what he wants. And his best friend, tucked up under his arm, is it for him.  _ You’re my vitamins _ , Kurt finishes.

(Richie read in  _ Kerrang! _ that all the songs on Nevermind were love songs. It made sense to him.)

He doesn’t care about the music anymore, because Eddie’s relaxing into him again, the line of him pressing warm against him from hip to underarm, and Richie  _ knows _ that he can die happy in this moment. In the way Eddie’s eyes are so bright, the lights glinting off warm hazel; in the way Eddie doesn’t push away from Richie; in the way Eddie’s arm wraps around his waist, fingers gripping his hip tight.

In April, when Richie finds out, Eddie’s the one that comforts him. In the years to follow, all of Derry melts away, leaving Richie with just vague impressions of his childhood. But he can always remember his first and last Nirvana concert. He remembers someone leaning against him, their bright eyes and smile. He remembers thinking  _ This is the one for me _ .

He doesn’t remember who it was. The New York Coliseum is demolished and the memories slip away, Kurt Cobain immortalized in memory but never the boy Richie loved with every fiber of his being.

When Mike called, the first thing that Richie remember was Eddie and him at that concert.

He thinks about it a lot, while he waits at Eddie’s bedside. The day after the concert, they went to the Met and looked around NYU’s campus. Richie doesn’t know if that’s were Eddie ended up, where he graduated. He lived in New York, got married in New York, but they never got enough time to talk.

He holds Eddie’s hand a lot, limp in his own. He’s ambidextrous. That’s a really good thing, because the fucking clown tore off one of them. Eddie would always use his right hand, though. Old Sonia had too many wives’ tales about left-handed people, acting like a nun in a Catholic school whenever Eddie tried to write with it.

It takes three days for Eddie to wake up. Richie’s been by his bedside for most of the 72 hours, besides a brief visit to the Town House for fresh clothes and his phone charger. He doesn’t think Eddie would be too glad to wake up to him still covered in greywater, and his phone is the best thing that passes as a distraction in this town. 

The TV is playing The Young and The Restless, and some of the plotlines seem a little too hard for hospital daytime television, but Richie is way too invested in Devon and Hilary’s marriage than to change the channel. The scene cuts to one of the younger couples, when Eddie groans. His hand twitches in Richie’s, who looks to see hazel eyes staring at him.

“Eds!” he exclaims, leaning over the man. Eddie’s eyes go a little hazy when he tries to follow the motion, and Richie has to remind himself that he’s on the best pain meds in the planet.

“Rich?” he slurs, eyes blinking slowly. “What happened?”

As far as Richie’s aware, this is the first time Eddie’s woken up, so he should really go get a nurse. Instead, he says softly, “We did it, Eddie. It’s over.”

“Good,” Eddie mumbles, and his eyes fall shut again. He’s out for the count, and Richie laughs, settling back in his chair and waiting for Eddie to wake up again. In the meantime, Phyllis got caught lying about taking a commercial flight when she inappropriately took the corporate jet.

He wakes up again later that night, actually lucid, though he froze in panic before Richie tells him again. This time, a nurse comes and checks his vitals before he slips away. They haven’t even told him about his arm yet. Richie falls asleep when the night shift changes, slumped over Eddie’s hand like he has been for the past three nights.

Richie dreams. Or really, he remembers. All the little stuff is coming back to him, now that the cosmic monster that stole his memories is dead. He remembers the clubhouse, meeting Bill and Stan in elementary school, being pushed out of the house by Sonia Kaspbrak when he showed up with mud on his shoes, Stan’s bar mitzvah, Mike teaching them how to drive stick in his granddad’s old truck around the farm, Bev showing him how to roll a joint under the bleachers, Ben filibustering in chemistry so the teacher doesn’t assign homework over the weekend and— _ Eddie _ .

He’s in every other memory, laughing or scowling or wheezing over some hypochondriac’s nightmare, and Richie can’t believe he was ever able to forget Eddie. Sure, the forgetting was out of his control, but he spent ten years in love with Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.

(He can even remember when it started: third-grade, when Eddie found him hiding during recess and started reading X-Men comics with him. He didn’t even get mad when Richie got smudges of dirt on the paper. Richie fell in love then, and it only kept building every since.)

It’s still dark when he wakes up, disoriented, brain still chasing the memory of Bev playing his guitar better than he could ever dream of. He doesn’t know why he woke up, until he hears the rustling of sheets, and his head jerks up.

Eddie is awake, looking at him with a slight smile. “You drooled on my hand,” he says, without the usual heat of disgust that would follow the words.

“Shit, sorry,” Richie says, sitting up in his chair and trying to let go. Try is the key word, because Eddie curls his fingers around Richie’s before he can.

“How long have I been out?” That’s Eddie, ever the pragmatist. Richie thinks he’s probably too high on pain meds to remember this one, either, but Richie will explain as many times as he has to.

“Four days,” he says. “I dragged you out of there as soon as I could.”

Eddie nods, but the smile on his face is gone. “Are the–are the others okay?”

This, at least, Richie has some good news for. “Yeah, everyone’s still kicking. And, uh, Mike got a call from Atlanta two days ago—Stan didn’t die.”

“I’m so glad,” Eddie says, but his voice cracks and suddenly he’s crying. 

“Christ, Eds, are you hurt? Do you need the nurse?” He’s half out of his chair when Eddie’s grip tightens even more, keeping Richie beside his bed.

“No, I can’t feel shit with whatever they have in me, it’s just… a lot, y’know? I thought I was dying, Rich, and I thought that… I didn’t want to have died never saying it.”

“Saying what,” Richie whispers. He moves so he’s leaning over Eddie in the small bed, hands still tightly holding on.

This is what Richie remembers, fresh in his mind: falling free of the deadlights, hearing himself yelling Eddie’s name and stumbling towards the man bleeding out on the ground. He remembers tearing his shirt to make a tourniquet, but not before Eddie used all the energy he had to hold his hand to Richie’s cheek. “Don’t call me Eds,” he had slurred, but a smile grew on his face, “you know I…” And then his eyes rolled back into his head, and Bev helped him tie the tourniquet around the fucking stump of his arm.

Eddie does it again, lifting their joined hands up and holding the back of his hand against Richie’s cheek. When he smiles, his teeth aren’t stained red with blood. “I love you,” he says, like the words don’t shake the very foundation of the life Richie’s made. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Richie’s not ashamed of the fact that he starts crying, but he wishes he could be more suave about it. His childhood crush finally confessed to him. He should be overjoyed—and he is—but all he can is sob into their joined hands. 

“God, I’m sorry,” he says after a few moments, lifting his glasses so he can wipe his eyes. “I never thought I would hear you say that.”

“It’s okay, Rich,” Eddie says, still impossibly soft sounding. “But don’t you have anything to say back?” He’s teasing now, which is a good sign. He won’t keel over in this hospital bed if he’s able to get bitchy again.

Which is why instead of saying it back, Richie backtracks. “Do you remember that Nirvana concert you took me to? We spent the next day dicking around the city, and when we got back your mom had a fucking stroke and made you stay in the house for two weeks?” When Eddie nods, he continues, “That’s when I realized you were the only man for me. I was in the room with the greatest musician of our generation, and I could only look at you, Eds.”

He presses his lips to the back of Eddie’s hand and finishes, “I love you, Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Eddie’s smile is like the sun, he decided way back in middle school. But the smile Eddie gives him right now, in this moment, rivals all the others put together. “Come here,” Eddie says, and Richie can never say no to Eddie Kaspbrak, especially not when he’s in a hospital gown.

It turns out, kissing Eddie is like being back in the New York Coliseum. Richie’s heart pounds in his ears like the bass line, or the kick drum, and all he can think about is  _ Eddie _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading my love letter to concerts, and dealing with me having to shove as much random information in as possible, like the plot of a 2016 young and the restless episode.
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](http://www.lgbtriku.tumblr.com)!


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